


Lighten Up the Atmosphere

by hhellion (LackingStealth)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Gen, I'll be adding tags as I go, M/M, Non-Chronological
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 14:14:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3695381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LackingStealth/pseuds/hhellion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s right and she knows it, especially since it’s practically the same speech she gives him whenever he’s up late in bed working on his novel.  They’ve always been too similar, that way. </p>
<p>(Or, the one with the wrong coffee cup)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lighten Up the Atmosphere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flirtingwithtrackers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtingwithtrackers/gifts).



> Prompt: "I’m zoning out working on this painting and you just stopped me from drinking out of my dirty water cup" + bellarke + 700 words max, go!
> 
> Word Count: 690
> 
> (Cross-posted to tumblr [here](http://skyboxkids.tumblr.com/post/115399048869/lighten-up-the-atmosphere))

Right now, Clarke’s the kind of tired that sticks eyelids open and locks muscles into position. For the past few hours, she’s been staring at the same section of canvas, and she’s still not satisfied with the color. It needs _something_ , but that something has been eluding her since midnight and at this point she’s ready to tear her hair out. This commission is due next week, and she still has so much left to touch up before she can call it done.

There’s a little digital clock sitting on the shelves by the door, but Clarke hasn’t turned around to check the time since she heard Bellamy puttering around upstairs sometime around eleven, letting Apollo out one last time and starting the dishwasher before bed. That was hours ago, and the thought of sleep makes Clarke want to cry a little. But she has to finish these details, dammit, or she’ll be up half the night agonizing over it anyway.

So Clarke sighs, reaching over to the cart where she stores all the brushes and paints she keeps at home, and closes her hands around her coffee mug. If she’s going to be up until dawn, she might as well be semi-lucid.

A warm hand closes around her wrist, and before she can question him, Bellamy’s chuckling into her hair, “I wouldn’t drink that if I were you.”

“ _Bell_.” She’s too tired to care how much it borders on a whine, but she clears her throat and adds dryly, “If you want to keep your hand, you will let go of my coffee cup.”

“That’s not coffee, princess.” He’s sounding much too fond, planting a kiss on the crown of her head. But Clarke focuses on the mug in her hands, on the “ _paint water_ ” scrawled across the side. Inside, her paints have blended into a muddy, murky brown. It’s nowhere near the color of her cold black coffee in the “ _not paint water_ ” mug still sitting on the cart.

“Oh.”

The smile in Bellamy’s voice is too obvious when he says, “It’s time for bed.” His arms snake around her shoulders and he rests his cheek against the top of her head.

“But I have to finish this,” she protests, but it’s more reflex than anything. When his lips find the shell of her ear, she lets out a little sigh and sinks deeper into the embrace.

“If you do that,” he says, his voice low and warm in a way that drags at her eyelids, “you’ll come back in the morning and hate it, and then you’ll want to scrap the whole thing. But this isn’t a personal project you can set aside. You’ve been working too hard on this to start over now, so close to the deadline.” Then he tilts her chin just so, pressing a kiss to the apple of her cheek. “You’ll feel better with a fresh start in the morning.”

He’s right and she knows it, especially since it’s practically the same speech she gives him whenever he’s up late in bed working on his novel. They’ve always been too similar, that way.

“Okay,” she acquiesces. He helps her to her feet, whisking her coffee mug upstairs while she gathers up her brushes to rinse out. He returns to lean against the door of the basement bathroom while she washes up, scrubbing paint off her hands and out from under her nails. When she declares herself and her brushes clean enough, he takes her hand and leads her upstairs.

From his cushion at the foot of the bed, Apollo opens one lazy eye to watch Clarke shuffle around the room as she gets ready for bed, before she pats him on the head and he relaxes. Then, finally, Clarke climbs into bed and into her husband’s arms, and when they’re both comfortable, he presses a kiss against her forehead and asks, “Where were we?”

“That damn golden apple made a comeback,” she mumbles into his chest.

“Ahh, yes, that damn apple.”

Clarke falls asleep to Bellamy’s voice in her ear, his hands in her hair, and their hearts beating in steady synchronization.

**Author's Note:**

> (For anyone who's curious, Bellamy’s novel (series) is a post-apocalyptic dystopian meets _The Iliad_ written for the middle school crowd, and he’s taken to talking Clarke through the plot before they fall asleep.)
> 
> I'm going to try something different, and write little drabbles/one-shots in the same universe in no particular chronological order. This first one was a prompt from [clarkeslight](http://clarkeslight.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, and I've got a couple already in the works, but if there's something you'd want to see, just drop me a line [here](http://skyboxkids.tumblr.com/) (the new writing blog, so I can keep everything straight).
> 
> If you want to chat about the 100, or about anything in particular, find me on [tumblr](http://lackingstealth.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
